


This isn’t hope though

by EtoileGarden



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Child Abuse, Communication, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Miscommunication, Non magic AU, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicide Attempt, everyone is alive AU, except for the fuckin soulmates, reference to sexual content, talking it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 01:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15523500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtoileGarden/pseuds/EtoileGarden
Summary: Because I'm easily persuaded into writing, I extended the soulmate AU I wrote for the prompts. The original can be found here https://archiveofourown.org/works/15476256/chapters/35926518Ronan has never brought up his soulmate, ever. Adam is willing to forget he didn’t wanna talk for this, even if the topic itself makes his skin crawl.“How long?” he asks.“Since I was three,” Ronan says, “or at least, that’s when I knew the words. I’ve grown up knowing I’m skinbound.”Adam exhales loudly. Can’t imagine how that feels. Knowing that you’re perfect for one person in particular, and then, going years and years without.“I don’t know why that’s so shitty,” Adam lies, “sounds better to me than never knowing.”





	This isn’t hope though

 

Soul marks were something that Adam had had to learn about in school rather than through life experience, or even through media exposure like the rest of his classmates. It was not something his parents talked about, seeing as they weren’t skinbound, and seeing as the only thing their small boxy TV ever played was rugby, there was nothing about soul marks on that.

It was first introduced to him in kindergarten; via bright picture books that mostly depicted young boys tripping and grazing their knees, and then seeing a pretty girl with a bleeding knee  _ just like theirs _ . This basic knowledge of the facts of biology was expanded on in primary school where he learned more facts and figures about it. Simple ones. Such as that 75% of people had a soulmate mark, but that  _ of course _ the (-who can tell me what percentage that leaves? Yes? Adam?-) 25% of people who weren’t proven to be bound  by skin to another person didn’t mean you didn’t have a soulmate, didn’t mean you wouldn’t get to fall in love. Highschool brought in the finer biology behind it, the puzzles around it, the harsh reality that most people actually didn’t find their soulmates, because, if you lived on the other side of the world to them you were never going to see their bruises echoing yours. You either had to be rich or very lucky. He read about the hypotheses that everyone had soulmates, not just 75% of the population, but that some people’s soulmates had already lived and died, and some hadn’t been born yet and wouldn’t be until their soulmate was dead. He read about the stories of people who lived in the same town as their soulmate but never noticed. Or, about people who got married and then discovered their soulmate. Most academic and fictional literature around the subject tended to be quite depressing, or, perhaps, Adam only sought out the more depressing ones because the light and fluffy ones, or the overly eagerly hopeful ones made him too cynical, made him too frustrated. Life itself was not hopeful.

The thing was, Adam couldn’t help but hope he might be one of the lucky few. The 75%, and then, within the 75%, the lucky, lucky,  _ lucky _ few. 

The  _ thing was _ , it is so hard to tell if you’re receiving your soulmates marks when you are constantly covered in bruises and cuts and injuries of your own.  How is Adam meant to know if his grazed knee is his own or not when he almost constantly has grazed knees anyway. How is he supposed to know? So. He has to hope. He has hope, but, as he gets older, 12, 13, 14, 15 - he starts, not exactly to lose hope, but to hope the opposite. That he isn’t bound by his skin to someone else, because he can only begin to imagine how horrified they must be to be receiving all his injuries on their skin. How awful that must be to watch their own skin mottle and ruin and bleed phantom blood. He can imagine his potential soulmate’s parents seeing what is happening to their child and hating him for it, even though he has no control over the situation. 

Maybe this horror also leads to his firm belief that his child self is a fool to have ever believed so fervently that he could be skinbound. If the universe is what granted these marks, then the universe must have seen him, so battered, so weak, and realised he wouldn’t be good for anyone. It made sense to him, in a sick kind of way. 

-

This is what Adam believed at 16; that he would never see a mark on his skin that he could prove was not his, even to himself, because there would never be a soulmate for him. It made sense. 

-

He’s at Boyd’s when it happens. He’s picked up extra shifts recently, a hell of a lot of extra shifts, because he’s trying to save up enough to prove to his parents that he could provide for them and still get good grades, and therefore, ought to be able to go to Aglionby Academy. That was his dream. Well. One of his dreams. His dreams were in this order; become independent, go to Aglionby so he can get into a good university so he can become independent, stop being scared of footsteps, find someone, skinbound or not, to prove to him he’s capable of love. 

Anyway. 

 

He’s at Boyd’s when it happens. He’s underneath a car, on his back on a little moving dolly, and at first he thinks he’s twisted himself in an odd way, or that maybe a splinter on the dolly had poked through his coveralls and his t-shirt underneath and jabbed into his back, but then, the pain is too long, too focused, and he has to push himself out from under the claustrophobic closeness of the underside of the car and breathe deeply.  His back feels like it’s on fire, or, very small parts of his back feels like they’re on fire, like someone is taking a scalpel and slicing down into his back muscles. He heaves out a huff of breath, trying to ease the emotions and sensations, trying to balance himself, and that catches the attention of another mechanic, coming back from their coffee break. 

 

“Parrish?” They say, “You doin’ alright? You’re lookin’ a bit pained there.” 

 

“Yeah,” he pants out, well aware that he does not sound like he’s doing alright. He tosses up what he ought to say, if he ought to say anything, if he should - “I think,” he says, “I think I’m getting a mark.” 

 

There’s a clattering of tools, and Adam is well aware that he suddenly has the entire garage’s attention. The first man, Roger, pauses and looks at him hard. 

 

“Oh yeah?” he asks. Adam knows no one else here is skinbound and met. Maybe some of the men here get marks, but none of them have met who has marked them. He hadn’t expected them to be so interested, but they’re all suddenly gathering around him like chickens ‘round feed. “Where? It’s really that painful?” 

 

Adam has had a few moments now to try and decipher the knife like feeling in his back, and he frowns up at Roger. “I dunno,” he admits, “it feels like a - like how I imagine a tattoo might feel. Will ya check for me?” 

 

Roger grins at him, and Adam fumbles with oily hands at his neck to undo his coveralls. Boyd comes out of the office then, looking around at all his workers who have abandoned their work to gather around Adam. It’s embarrassing. Not only because Adam does not appreciate being the centre of any attention, good or bad, and also embarrassing because soul marks feel so  _ intimate _ and  _ also _ embarrassing because what if he’s wrong. What if he’s wrong? 

 

“What’s goin’ on?” Boyd demands, and someone else that Adam can’t see replies immediately, loud and excited. 

 

“Parrish boy’s gettin’ a mark!” 

 

Boyd joins the circle. Adam manages to shuck the top half of his coveralls, pulling his sleeves inside out in his haste. Roger looks to be almost itching to undress him himself. Adam tugs his t-shirt up over his back, and the people around him let out a collective sound of shock. 

 

“What?” Adam asks, horror already forming in his heart that maybe? Maybe there’s nothing there at all. Maybe - maybe - he doesn’t know what other maybes. “What?” 

 

“God,” Roger says, he’s leaning over Adam’s shoulder, touching dirty calloused fingers to Adam’s shoulderblade. The touch stings intensely, and he flinches away. Roger doesn’t withdraw his hand, just touches again. “Does that hurt?” he asks. 

 

“Yes” Adam hisses, “like -  _ hell _ .” 

 

“It’s a huge ass tattoo,” someone else says from behind him, “holy fucking crap, Parrish, looks like your feeling kicked in half the fucking way through!” 

 

“What?” Adam asks again, “how big?” 

 

Someone else touches down near the base of his spine, and he flinches away again, because; one, it hurt, and two, he does not appreciate being suddenly touched. 

 

“From here,” Boyd says, must have been his hand touching Adam’s lower back, “to here.” his hand has dragged its way up the line of Adam’s spine all the way to the top of Adam’s nape, and he shivers at the stinging touch. 

 

He is really not appreciating being touched like this. This is not the kind of touch the mechanics gave; it was usually shoulder thumps, and jostling elbow fights between friends, never this skin on skin. Adam supposed seeing a soul mark form made people forget their boundaries. Like, seeing a pregnant woman and touching her belly. People are stupid. 

 

“Someone take a picture,” Adam asks. He’s gripping onto his t-shirt hard on his lap because the searing lines of the tattoo needles are digging into muscles in his back, and it  _ hurts.  _ “I wanna put my clothes back on and take some panadol.”  __

 

There’s fumbling behind him, a noise of a fake camera shutter going off on someone’s phone. Boyd comes around to his front, holds his phone out to him. His back is red, some blood beading up against dark stark black lines on his skin. The tattoo, though only partially formed, is obviously set to be huge. It sprawls up from his hips to his neck, and it curls around itself like vines. He has no idea what it’s supposed to be. 

 

“I’ll text it to you,” Boyd offers. 

 

“Uh,” Adam says, “I don’t have a phone. Just email it to me? The email I gave you before. The school one.” 

 

“Sure,” Boyd says, “I’ll grab you some panadol huh? Lucky boy, talented and skinbound?” 

 

-

 

He has honestly never felt so elated. Despite the pain. This. This is proof. Proof that he, Adam Parrish, stained and sore and dirty, was worthy of being loved. On top of this, his parents agree to let him attend Aglionby. He thinks that maybe? Maybe the universe saw him, and instead of seeing some pathetic and useless, they saw potential, and decided to give him a chance.  When he’s home, after his parents have gone to bed and Adam’s finished with his chores, he showers, and takes the opportunity of being alone to stand in front of their small cracked and stained mirror in the bathroom. He wipes it clear of the steam, and then stands with his back to it, looking carefully over his shoulder. The pain had abated an hour or so ago, though it still throbbed a little, and he could see the tattoo was finished. He can only see bits and pieces of it at a time in the mirror, smeared and smudgy in the glass, but it looks beautiful. Also, wicked. Also, ridiculously expensive. 

 

He goes to bed, feeling alright. Things are alright. 

 

Of course. Because, this is Adam Parrish we are talking about? Things do not continue to be alright. The first instance of things not continuing to be alright is about a week after he’d been marked for the first time. Or at least, the first proven time. He had gotten his letter back from Aglionby, admitting him in on partial scholarship, he had his shifts all lined up in a row, his heart was fuller than it had been for a while. He’s not sure what sets his father off. If it’s just that Adam is in a good mood, or, if he had a bad day of work, or, who knows, but. He gets a beating that’s a little worse than usual. A little more focused than usual. He gets a beating that leaves his arm - his  _ right _ arm, hanging useless by his side. 

 

He does his best. He tries to work out the maths to make it work, but the fact of the matter is; he can’t work enough shifts one handed to make enough money to pay his first installment of school fees. The school is very clear of when fees are paid. Adam. Can. Not. Go. To. Aglionby. He can’t go. It doesn’t matter that he’s met with the headmaster already, that his current teachers have written gushing letters of praise on Adam’s work ethic, and the quality of his schoolwork. He doesn’t have the money, and that, above all, is what Aglionby cares about. Adam can’t go. 

 

It’s upsetting. It hurts. But. It isn’t the worst thing, surely. He still  _ has _ his jobs. He still has Mountain View high, even if it kind of sucks. Maybe, maybe,  _ maybe _ , he could try again next year. He’s not a complete loss, he has had proof of that. Proof marked into his back with needles. 

 

-

 

He’s asleep when it happens. It’s months after his first mark, and he hasn’t been able to notice any new ones. He’s half hoping that maybe his soulmate will get another tattoo, just to prove he’s still there. Adam proves he’s still there every other week, a new bruise, a new graze, a new whatever.

He wakes up, of course, because the pain is blinding and sickening, and for a long dizzy moment he doesn’t know what’s going on. He thinks maybe his father has arrived home, drunk and enraged, and come to Adam’s room to take it out on him. He thinks possibly his body is finally just giving up, is tired of being a boxing bag, is killing itself. He thinks, wildly, that maybe his soulmate is getting another tattoo?  It’s the wetness of his sheets, of his chest, the slickness of it all that clues him in, and he sits up quickly on his bed, fumbling for the bedside lamp. 

 

His bed is wet and red with blood, dark, and pulsing, and even as Adam stares down at the gashes in his arms that are producing the blood, he watches as more are drawn into his skin. It’s a fuck load more painful than the tattoo had been. He doesn’t know if it’s because wrists are more sensitive and the cuts are deeper and more jagged, or if it’s the emotional weighty pain of knowing exactly what your soulmate is doing somewhere. He does know. It’s the latter. He’s used to physical pain. This, however, is blinding.

 

He finds himself pressing his hands, his blankets, uselessly against the cuts, attempting to stem the flow of blood. This is useless, because it isn’t his blood, and while the blood will seem as if it is seeping into his blankets and dripping down his skin now, he knows it will disappear later, like the dark cuts in his skin. Like the small drips of blood that had appeared on his back, like the sprawling tattoo. He knows this from experience, obviously, but also because he and everyone else in his science class had sat an exam on soulmate marks just last year. 

Within the next 24 hours, Adam’s arms would be as smooth as they ever were - not very - and within the next half hour, any blood spilled would be gone. For now though, he’s stuck pressing his thin blanket into the thick cuts, biting down against his upper arm because, god, it hurts like all hell, but also because, _god_ _it hurts like all hell_. 

 

It makes sense, he thinks vaguely, mind muzzy with pain and grief, that he would be one of the 75% who has a soulmate, but would also be one of the unlucky few who watches their soulmate die. This is what life did to Adam Parrish, it pretended to give, and then, very quickly, it took away. 

This is what it always did. When he was six, his grandmother had come to Henrietta to take Adam to her flat in DC. She wanted him to live with her, she offered to pay for all his schooling. His parents had agreed. All the arrangements were made. She died the night before they left. A heart attack. Strange for someone in their 60s, but certainly not unheard of. Like his dreams of going to Aglionby. He got in on scholarship, he persuaded his parents to let him go, if he didn’t slack on his chores, he was ready to pay the extra himself. He got the extra jobs he would need to pay it. His father broke his arm the week before semester started. 

Like now. Where Adam knows, 100%, that he has a soulmate. Has had solid, indisputable proof of this twice now. That he is worthy of having a soulmate, and his soulmate? Is dying. Is dying. Is dying. 

-

He does not sleep at all that night. Instead, he watches as more and more blood leaves his body, knowing that it is not his blood, but feeling fainter and fainter anyway. He watches as the bleeding stops. He watches as the cuts are pulled back together, skin to skin, sharp searing pricks as some unknown hand stitches the skin until it is lumpy and red but no longer gaping. He does not bother hoping that the paramedics got there in time. He had felt how much blood had poured over him and his sheets.  He had watched his watch tick past the minutes of no return for his soulmate. He had seen the blood stop pulsing, as if there just wasn’t enough left to keep bleeding. Throughout the night his heart  _ burns _ like he’s taken paddles to the chest, and he sobs as quietly as possible, because, because, because  _ God _ , he hadn’t known heartbreak could be this fucking painful. He hadn’t known he was capable of feeling this strongly. His wrists sting and ache and  _ hurt _ all day, and he hides them under long sleeves because how is he meant to explain that? Because he couldn’t bear it if anyone at Boyd’s saw it. And then, as he knew it would, they disappear from his skin. 

He’s left with nothing but the tar like feeling in his stomach, heavy, sticky, black, that somewhere out there his soulmate is dead, and that maybe? Maybe. It was because they just couldn’t take the pain Adam was unconsciously giving them day by day, week by week. The probably endless seeming bruises and cuts and pain. It sickens him to his core.  _ He _ is responsible for this. 

-

He works hard. He has no romantic dream to chase now, so he gets back on his academic horse with more vigour, anger, despair, fueling him. He applies for the scholarship to Aglionby again. He has to appear at least three times better than he had last time, because now he’s let them down already and they’ll be less inclined to accept him. He starts his extra jobs before he gets any news back from Aglionby. He works even harder to not antagonise his parents, to keep himself out from under his father’s fists. He saves more money. He works hard. He works hard. He works hard. His biggest relief is that at least? Now, when his father bruises him, smashes his face into the ground, breaks bottles on his ribs? Now no one else has to feel it. He gets into Aglionby. 

 

-

 

He meets Richard Campbell Gansey III his very first day of Aglionby. The name itself is enough to put Adam off of him entirely, and the overly polished and shiny nature of Gansey’s very being is more than enough to overfill Adam with a need to get away, but somehow? Somehow Gansey ends up sitting with him in class, and then at lunch, and then trailing him out to the carpark. 

 

“No offense,” Adam says as he reaches his bike, where it’s chained to the otherwise empty bike rack. Everyone else here either lives on campus, or has a big and shinily expensive car parked here. “But you don’t strike me as someone friendless. Why are you hanging out with me?” 

 

Gansey waves away Adam’s confusion, and laughs. “Well,” he says, “that is one of the strangest things I’ve heard. I would hang out with you anyday, Adam Parrish. It is true, however, that I usually spend my time with my good friend Ronan. Ronan Lynch. You may have heard of him?”

 

Adam might have heard a few grumbled comments about Lynch, mostly from teachers taking the roll, but that didn’t mean he knew who he was. 

 

“So,” Adam says, unchains his bike slowly, “when this Lynch gets back, I should expect you to sit on the other side of the cafetaria to me?” 

 

“Adam,” Gansey gasps, “I am a little offended, and, a little confused, because from what I’ve seen of you in class today, you are  _ so much _ smarter than that. I’m saying that I want to be your friend, whether or not my other friends are here.” 

 

Adam thinks that Gansey is entirely too earnest. He also thinks that there’s no one else he’s met at this school that he can stand. He smiles at Gansey. 

 

-

 

Lynch isn’t at school, which means that Adam and Gansey get to spend a lot of quality time together, occasionally joined by Gansey’s other friends - Noah, Henry, Chad(?), Charles(possibly Chad?), Jameson - but more often alone, these other, louder people only bumping shoulders and first with Gansey in corridors. Adam preferred this and Gansey appeared to prefer as well because it means he gets to sit there and ask Adam all sorts of homeworky questions and blather on at Adam about all sorts of strange history things, while, when his other friends are here he talks more about rowing, or the parties people want him to go to. There’s just something about Gansey. Like he’s two very different people, and Adam is flattered that he gets to see both Gansey’s. The first Gansey, the one he thinks everyone sees, is the Richard Campell Gansey III, the one of the rowing team with a huge enigmatic smile and a golden posture. The second, is the one that slips out when Gansey is concentrating on a particularly deep question, or listening to Adam solve something, and it’s almost… sad. That Gansey is almost sad. In the kind of way that some ancient artefacts are almost sad, Adam finds himself thinking, which is a weird thing to think. He likes it. Gansey feels so much deeper than his clear cut smile and his old money voice. Adam finds he feels very quickly at home with Gansey, just with Gansey. So. Lynch isn’t at school, isn’t at school, isn’t at school, and then very suddenly, on the third day of the second week of Adam’s first term at Aglionby, Lynch is there. 

 

-

 

“Well, well,” Whelk says dryly, about five minutes into Latin class when the door slams open and a tall, and un-uniformed boy slumps in. His shoulders are broad and blunt in a way that his face is not. “If it isn’t Lynch, our black sheep, back at last. Did your brother finally corral you into joining your betters again?” 

 

Lynch spits something angry, and Latin sounding at Whelk, who stares back unimpressed, and points at the chair beside Gansey. Adam assumes that that chair was where Lynch usually sat. The one problem here is that Adam is currently sitting in it. Gansey glances at him, and Adam is unsure whether he ought to get up and shift for Lynch, or if he should just stay where he is. Gansey hadn’t minded him sitting here so far, after all. Lynch is scowling at him. His face was all handsomely sharp lines and jagged edges. Adam thinks; feral, dangerous, avoid.

 

“Just stay there,” Gansey says to him, and then, raises his voice, “Ronan,” he says, “come sit down for God’s sake. The desk behind us is empty.” 

 

Ronan Lynch looks like he might be about to turn and leave, but, with one more vitriol filled glance at Whelk, he stomps down the room to Gansey and Adam. Adam avoids looking at him, certain that Ronan will be looking angrily at him again. Instead, he listens as Ronan drops his bag heavily onto the chair behind him, and then heavier, drops himself into the chair behind Gansey, then, heavier still, drops his head onto the desktop. Adam’s forehead aches suddenly in an almost sympathetic response to how much that  _ sounded _ like it must have hurt. Gansey turns in his seat to say something to Ronan, voice low, but then Whelk is joining them. 

 

“Get back to work, boys,” he directs Gansey and Adam, and then to Ronan, “I hope you have a very good excuse for not only your absence, your tardiness, and lack of manners, but also your... clothes.” 

 

Adam doesn’t hear Ronan say anything, but by the sound of Whelk’s hissed anger, he assumes Ronan has answered non-verbally, manually instead. 

 

“Stay behind after class,” Whelk snaps, “we’re going to see Principal Child’s.” 

 

“Joy,” Ronan says, toneless. 

 

-

 

So. His first meeting of Ronan Lynch is not a fantastic one. It really truly isn’t. He doesn’t want to get to know Ronan better. So, it’s a pity really, that the only person Adam likes enough to spend his time with is Gansey, and that is apparently how Ronan feels as well. He feels like he and Ronan are both orbiting Gansey, and, that sooner or later, due to some change in gravity, they’re going to change courses and collide into each other. Probably disastrously. 

 

Because of Gansey and Ronan’s friendship, Adam sees a lot of Ronan, because, Adam spends as much time as he can not working or at school, at Gansey’s - an off campus apartment that he shares with Ronan, called Monmouth.  Mostly, when he’s there, Adam and Gansey are just doing homework together, or, discussing science problems that intrigue the both of them, of just chatting about random shit. Mostly, when he’s there, Ronan stays in his room, only coming out for long enough to spit snide comments at Adam, for Gansey to look at him disapprovingly. 

 

If Gansey reminds Adam of some old artefact, sadder and deeper than he looks on the outside, Ronan reminds him of a box of ancient fireworks. Like - he’s not sure if they’ll still work, or, what they’ll do, but he definitely doesn’t want to put his face over any of them. Or, no, that wasn’t quite right. Ronan reminded him of a feral cat. Like something in a cage because that was safer for them and everyone else. Like; you know they need to be caged, but at the same time it’s sad seeing them caed? Beautiful and sharp. No. That wasn’t quite it either. Ronan Lynch was an enigma. It was easy, Adam thought, to just write him off as some delinquent, with his shaved head, and his leather, and his bad attitude, riding through life on his good looks and his fists. But. Gansey liked him, loved him even from the way he talked about him when Ronan wasn’t around, and the way Gansey looked for him when he wasn’t around and should be around. Adam can’t imagine Gansey loving anything shallow, so, therefore, Ronan must be as deep as Gansey is underneath his shiny mask. 

Anyway. It doesn’t seem to matter how much Adam hopes that he’ll get to see the  _ real _ version of Ronan Lynch, if there is one, because Ronan doesn’t seem willing to show it to him. He picks fights with Adam as much as possible. He hides in his room almost whenever Adam is around. Until, one day, he doesn’t. Or, well. He does. But less. Again, Adam is reminded of a feral cat. Like - he’s been around for long enough that Ronan doesn’t think Adam’s enough of a threat to bother staying out of the way. So. He comes out more. He talks to Adam more. Still mostly in argument form, but, after a few long months of this has passed, Adam finds he enjoys his arguments with Ronan almost as much as he enjoys his discussions with Gansey. Gansey seems to appreciate it as well, though he had been very upset and cautious at first, certain that one of his friends would tear his other friend’s throat out, but, once he had seen it was the easiest way for them to get along, he had settled down. 

Still. Despite the fact that their new form of vague friendship was built on squabbling, Adam still doesn’t feel like he  _ knows _ Ronan. Not in the way it really counts. Not in the way Gansey knows Ronan. Not in the way that he understands why Ronan is  the way he is, what  _ happened _ to Ronan Lynch, why Gansey sometimes refers to a ‘before’ Ronan like he was a completely different person. He still thinks that he and Ronan will, at some point, have a completely earth shattering fight. Something that completely ruins everything. Like, Ronan will pick a topic to tease Adam about and Adam will completely lose it. Adam thinks that the most likely topic to get him to completely lose it would be soulmates. He is not looking forward to this happening.

 

Amazingly, this doesn’t happen. He and Ronan argue, almost constantly whenever they’re in the same room, yes, but they don’t ruin things, they don’t create a rift big enough that Gansey has to choose between the two of them. Ronan never brings up the topic that Adam is 99% sure he can not deal with being joked around with about. It’s fine. Not ideal - but fine. It turns out, that it’s not Ronan that he ought to have worried about bringing the topic up. It’s Gansey. 

-

It happens about five months after Adam had first arrived at Aglionby, which, to be fair, is probably a surprise because he thinks most boys their age talk about soulmarks with at least their good friends. Gansey can be a bit dense about a lot of things, like money, and Adam’s ever present bruises, or how much Adam works,  but usually he and Adam work their way around it. Today, Gansey is not picking up on the fact that the conversation topic he’s picked to talk about at length while sitting on the floor of his strange apartment in the middle of his stranger project - a miniature and cardboard version of Henrietta - is a topic that Adam does not want to talk about at all or ever. 

 

“I know it’s barely anything,” Gansey is saying, “but I’ve always felt so deep in my soul that I was skinbound? I felt in my heart of hearts that I couldn’t have been given another chance when I was young to not have someone waiting for me. In what world would my deadly allergy to being stung by hundreds of wasps be able to be immediately countered by a passing poison specialist if there was no point in my continued life? It felt like the universe was like, hang on there, young man, there’s someone waiting out there for you - you wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would you?” 

 

Ronan grunts from somewhere over by the couch. It’s obvious that he’s heard at least part of this spiel before. Even Adam has, but not in this context. “Get to it Gansey,” Ronan says, gruff, “what the fuck is it you wanted to say?” 

 

Adam doesn’t say anything. He’s laid all his homework out on the floor in front of him, his head bowed low over his books so he can act like he’s not even paying attention. He doesn’t want Gansey to talk to him about this. 

 

“Look,” Gansey says, is saying this to both Adam and Ronan. Adam doesn’t look. “See that graze up my elbow? I didn’t do that. It happened while I was in the bathroom. Not grazing myself. This is proof - this is proof that I am skinbound.”  

He says it like this; ‘ _ this _ is  _ proof _ ’.

 

“Congratulations,” Ronan says dryly. “You and millions of other people. You know most soulmates don’t find each other?” 

 

“I’ve been told I’m very good at finding things, thank you very much,” Gansey says tersely, “and don’t be so blase about it, Ronan, I know being skinbound is old hat to you, and you might not even care about finding whoever it is, but it’s exciting to  _ me _ -” 

 

This is interesting in many ways. For one, Ronan has never mentioned anything about soulmates, or being skinbound, but it sounds like Gansey is implying that he’s already had proof that he is. For another, at Gansey’s words, Ronan leaps up, like a cat sprayed with water. The thumping is enough to get Adam to look up from his maths. 

Gansey’s arm is still bared, and Adam can see the long graze, pebbling over with scabbing. Ronan is standing by the couch, shoulders hunched under his hoodie, handsome face furious, eyebrows drawn low. 

 

“You  _ know  _ I -” Ronan begins, glances at Adam and seems to think better of whatever thing he was about to say, finishes with a hissed; “fuck you, man,” and stomps out of the room to slam himself shut in his bedroom. 

 

Adam looks back at Gansey, who’s holding onto his arm, just above the graze. He looks upset, but quietly upset.

 

Gansey speaks in a low voice, eyes fixed on the spot Ronan had disappeared from. 

 

“Ronan is touchy about soulmates,” he says, “for good reason. I shouldn’t have brought it up around him. I - I’m sorry about that. I was just so - I’m excited -” 

 

“It’s ok, Gansey,” Adam says, miraculously finds himself no longer upset at the topic at hand, finds himself letting his tongue move freely, like Ronan had been upset about it enough for the both of them. “I get it. It’s exciting. I’m - I’m happy for you - but - “ 

 

“But?” Gansey says, shifts his gaze to look at Adam, eyes narrowed and keen. “You get it? Have you been -? You never said -?” 

 

“I was skinbound, yeah,” Adam says, continus quickly and simply before Gansey can say anything like, ‘ _ was?’ _ “My soulmate is dead,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I felt it happen. I saw it happen. So I - I’m not going to storm out of the room as well, but I’d prefer we didn’t talk about it.” 

 

“Oh,” Gansey says, his face going through so many emotions at once it was like watching a whole movie, “Oh, Adam, I’m so sorry, I -” 

 

“No,” Adam says firmly, “it’s fine. I’d prefer not to talk about it.” 

 

“Ok,” Gansey says. Adam bites his lip. 

 

“You can tell me,” Adam mumbles, “if you get more marks. I - I don’t wanna talk about it, but you can tell me. If you want to. But. Maybe talk to Noah about it if you wanna talk about it.” 

Noah is one of the only other of Gansey’s friend Adam likes more than he puts up with. He’s very cheerful, bright and bubbly, and good at listening. He’s often just… too  _ much _ for Adam though, so he’s glad Noah seems more attached to Henry than he is to Gansey. 

 

“Ok,” Gansey says again, smiles carefully at Adam. Adam smiles carefully back. 

 

-

 

So. It’s ok. Gansey gets a few more scrapes and bruises. Nothing big or awful, just everyday wear and tear. Nothing happens about it. Until, of course, it does. Because, Gansey is one of the 75%, and, not only is he lucky, he’s also ridiculously rich. So. it makes sense. That, for him? Being skinbound means he will find his soulmate. 

-

It happens on Adam’s sixth, almost seventh month of going to Aglionby. He, Ronan, Gansey, Noah, and Henry are squished into a booth at Nino’s, on the hunt for pizza, coke, and a break from Monmouth because they’re studying for upcoming exams and Monmouth is only for studying right now, the floor covered in paper and study timetables. 

Ronan is whispering some dumb shit in Adam’s ear about how Gansey’s shirt matches the terribly lurid booth seats here, Adam is trying not to giggle, Gansey is leaning out of the booth to catch the attention of their waitress, and Noah is attempting to balance a salt shaker on his nose. The saltshaker falls as the waitress arrives at the table. It lands on the end of a fork, and in a move that Adam can barely believe is plausible, the fork flies up and stabs Gansey’s still raised hand. It doesn’t stick, of course, that would be too unreal. It lands with a clatter on the table just as Gansey’s hand starts dripping blood and the waitress, a short girl with spiky hair, yelps out in a shock of pain. 

Her hand is bleeding in unison with Gansey’s. 

 

“Oh hell no,” the girl says, “oh hell no.” She turns on her heel, and marches off towards the kitchen. 

 

Gansey spends a second staring, and then scrambles to his feet, abandoning the table to chase after her. 

 

Adam wants to stay and see how this pans out. Instead, he swallows, puts a couple of notes down on the table, and sidles his way out, mumbling something about heading home before it gets too dark, nevermind the fact that it’s not even 5 yet. He wants to be happy for Gansey, even if his waitress soulmate doesn’t look happy, he knows Gansey will be thrilled with having found her so soon. He wants to be happy. He can’t. His stomach roils. 

-

He’d driven to Nino’s with the rest of them, his bike still at Monmouth, so he sets off towards it, head down, eyes stinging. Ronan catches up with him before he’s even made it a block away from Nino’s. 

 

“I don’t wanna talk,” Adam says to the pavement, his hands stuffed hard in his pockets. 

 

“The fuck would I talk about?” Ronan snarls back, falls into step beside Adam. 

 

They walk back to Monmouth together in silence. Adam can’t pinpoint when in their terse relationship he and Ronan had gone from grudging acceptance of each other being in Gansey’s life, to easy acceptance, to friendship. Because, they were friends now. Adam hung out at Monmouth with Ronan even with Gansey wasn’t there. Adam let Ronan drag him on dumb adventures. Adam listened to Ronan’s stupid music. Adam felt at ease walking in silence next to him. Their conversations weren’t only based around arguing now. Adam wanted Ronan to talk. 

-

When they reach the parking lot, Ronan does talk, as if he’s read Adam’s needs. 

 

“It hurts,” Ronan says, “seeing him actually find them, yeah?” 

 

“I said,” Adam grumbles, “I don’t wanna talk.”

 

Ronan ignores him, but shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. “Like, it was one thing him being skinbound, of course he’d be skinbound, he’s Gansey, but - finding them? So soon? Y’know how long I’ve been skinbound, Parrish?” 

 

Ronan has never brought up his soulmate, ever. Adam is willing to forget he didn’t wanna talk for this, even if the topic itself makes his skin crawl. 

 

“How long?” he asks. 

 

“Since I was three,” Ronan says, “or at least, that’s when I knew the words. I’ve grown up knowing I’m skinbound.” 

 

Adam exhales loudly. Can’t imagine how that feels. Knowing that you’re  _ perfect _ for one person in particular, and then, going years and years without. 

 

“I don’t know why that’s so shitty,” Adam lies, “sounds better to me than never knowing.” 

 

Ronan is looking at him hard, like he’s trying to say something more that Adam just isn’t getting. 

 

“It’s shitty,” Ronan says, “because it’s never just been one  graze. It’s always more. It’s always - I feel like one day I’m gonna wake up and know that my soulmate is dead. It freaked my mum out so much, y’know? I spent a lot of time at the doctors ‘cos they wanted to know if there was a way they could like, lessen the skinbinding. Or like, I dunno. Somedays, I think he’s been beaten to a fuckin’ pulp, because that’s what my body looks like, y’know. Only for 24 hours, lucky for me, but - for him? For - I feel like -” he’s rambling a little now. Looks like he knows it as well, his face is flushing. 

 

Adam chews at his lip, grips his bike handlebars. He hasn’t unchained it yet. 

 

“My soulmate is dead,” he says roughly, “they’re dead. So. I get it. Or whatever. Shit’s rough.”    
  


Ronan laughs at him then, hollow sounding. “How do you know?” he asks. 

 

“I watched it,” Adam says, simple, “saw it happen. Only found out I was skinbound a short while before hand. Pretty lucky, huh.” 

 

“Huh,” Ronan says. 

 

He looks like he’s having an internal struggle. It doesn’t look like it’s going to resolve itself anytime soon though, and Adam wants to be out of here before Gansey gets back. If Gansey’s going to be back tonight at all, or if he would spend all evening and night convincing the waitress to give him a chance or whatever.  Adam unchains his bike. 

 

“I have to go,” he says, “I - it’s - thanks for telling me about your soulmate, I guess.” 

 

Ronan just stares at him, face twisted. Adam knows he’s being kind of a dick? But? He can’t talk about this anymore. It’s painful. It’s a gross feeling. It was almost vaguely ok until Ronan had brought up how bad his soul marks were, because, that’s what fucking killed Adam’s soulmate, wasn’t it? It’s sickening. It’s - he just wants to get out of here and not deal with how he feels. He gets on his bike, makes it as far as the entrance to the parking lot before his knuckles explode in pain. He drops his foot from the pedal to the gravel covered ground, unsteady and breathing erratically at the surprise of it. His knuckles are bleeding and stinging, and - 

Adam knows that when he makes his mind up about something he keeps it firmly made up in a way that lets in as little hope as possible, because hope, as he’d learned usually ends painfully. Adam knows this. Adam doesn’t trust hope. That is why he had never hoped his soulmate survived their suicide attempt. This isn’t hope though. This is fact. This is his knuckles giving him fact. 

 

“I’m not dead,” Ronan yells out from behind him, voice cracking half way. He sounds pained. “I’m not fucking dead.” 

 

Adam swings one leg over his bike, lets it fall unhindered to the ground. Doesn’t turn to face Ronan. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Ronan continues, loudly, “I didn’t mean to - I didn’t know you thought that.”

 

Adam turns. Ronan is advancing on him, hand bloody at his side. He’d punched the side of Monmouth. Hard. Or so Adam’s painful knuckles inform him. He thinks that the punch wasn’t in anger, but in sudden frustrated desperation, the kind that comes when you don’t know how to make words work for you.

 

“I’m sorry,” Ronan repeats, “I - I wasn’t sure it was you - I wasn’t sure if - and then you -” 

 

“No,” Adam says, as loud as Ronan, watches as Ronan stops in his tracks, face wary, “no. I - I watched myself bleed out. You can’t -” 

 

They both know he can. They both know the blood on their hands, dripping in unison, means he can. Means he is. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Ronan says again. 

 

Adam swallows. “How long have you known?” he asks, because now, looking at Ronan, he can tell that this has been a secret Ronan has been sitting on for a while. Ronan always wore a face of someone who was keeping secrets, but Adam had not realised when he had added a new secret to his expression. 

 

“Since last month,” Ronan says, “you came in with that massive black eye on monday. I’d the same one over the weekend. S’why I didn’t join you and Gans at Nino’s on the saturday. Don’t like to wear my soulmates’ bruises in public.” 

 

“Why didn’t you  _ say _ ,” Adam snaps. Can’t believe he’s fucking snapping at his soulmate.

 

“Because,” Ronan blusters, he’s started moving forward again, one foot slow in front of the other, “because you hated hearing Gansey say anything about soulmarks. You froze up as soon as he started on it.” 

 

“So?” Adam says. Stays stock still as Ronan approaches.

 

“So,” Ronan says, “I thought you didn’t believe. Or didn’t like it. Or didn’t want it.” 

 

“You bled out,” Adam says weakly. Ronan’s reached him now, is standing so close Adam can smell him. 

 

“I did,” Ronan shrugs, his hands are scrabbling at his wrists, undoing his perpetual leather bands, dropping them like skeletoned autumn leaves on the ground around them, exposing badly scarred skin, rippled and puckered in a way Adam remembered vividly. “I did. And then they pumped me full of new blood, and shocked my heart, and stitched me up, and I got a second fucking chance.” 

 

“How was I supposed to know that?” Adam asks, hoarsely. He watches his own hands dart out to touch the skin on Ronan’s wrists, just lightly and then away again. The scars he hadn’t got to see form because the cuts disappear too quickly to watch heal when they were this bad. If he’d only gotten to see the skin reknit itself. He would have known. He wouldn’t have - 

 

“Dunno,” Ronan says, shrugs, “dunno, but - I’m alive.” 

 

“Fuck you,” Adam says, is absolutely horrified to find out that his voice sounds so raw and wet, “I was so - I was so -” 

 

“Yeah,” Ronan says.

 

“God,” Adam gasps, because, he knows what he’s about to do is going to be the biggest dick move he has possibly ever pulled. Because he can’t, he just can’t, can’t deal with this right now. His heart feels like it’s been pumped full of adrenaline and it fills his body with something itchy like dread, makes his head hurt and ache as if it’s threatening to pour all his emotions out through his burning eyelids. “God,” he repeats, doesn’t look at Ronan because he can’t form his face into the entreaty he would need to be wearing to say these words to Ronan’s face. “I can’t right now,” he says, “I can’t. I can’t - I’m - I can’t.” 

 

Ronan just looks at him like he doesn’t understand, so, Adam makes it very obvious what he means by saying that he  _ can’t _ . He turns jerkily away from Ronan, feeling like his body doesn’t even belong to him anymore for how well it’s obeying him, picks up his fallen, scratched bike, swings his leg over it. Pauses, exhales loudly, cycles off. 

 

He half expects his hand to burst out in pain again. Or something else to explode in pain. In another attempt at convincing him to stay, to talk, or, as punishment maybe. But Ronan doesn’t do anything, and Adam’s body only has to deal with the aching in his chest and the shock in his head, and Ronan’s bruises and bleeding knuckles superimposed over his. He can’t. He can’t.  

He just has to hope Ronan can forgive him. 

 

-

 

It takes him almost the entire cycle back, his legs mechanically taking him back home with minimal to zero input from his brain, to put into coherent(ish) thoughts  _ why _ he couldn’t. Why he had just left. Why he was in so much fucking pain over knowing his soulmate was alive, alive, alive. 

It’s this.  

 

Adam had thought his soulmate was dead. He had mourned them. Then he had tried to cauterise the hole in his chest. Not very well. Thinking about it still hurt him so bad his teeth ached with it, but. But. He’d pushed himself to the point where he accepted it. Where thinking about it any other way than the way he thought it was just drove him crazy. To accept it now, even with the facts bleeding in front of his eyes, was to be driven crazy. 

 

Adam had always known, since he was young, that his eyes followed girls and boys alike. He didn’t think he had a personal preference for either, but he certainly had a socialised preference. All his daydreams, except for the ones that snuck in when he wasn’t paying careful attention, involved women. He was gonna graduate with a great degree and a great girlfriend and move on to a great job and a great wife. He wasn’t ashamed, not exactly, of liking guys. But. It wasn’t convenient for his dreams, for where he wanted to go. He already had so much shit people were going to judge him for, hold him down for. His bad family, his rough upbringing, his accent, his trailer trash origins. Having a boyfriend? Hah. 

 

Adam had been aware, for the last few  months, since his and Ronan’s arguing had gotten less spiky and more fun, that he had been harbouring - he wasn’t sure if he could call it a crush - feelings. Emotions. Wants.  _ Desires _ surrounding Ronan. It was easy. Ronan was almost cruelly good looking. The way his face was cut, the way his body was built, the way his muscles moved sleekly and his face shifted so sweetly when a smiled cracked through his heavily built walls. It was easy to  want Ronan, because Ronan was unavailable, because Ronan was  _ bound _ to someone else, because it was safe. He could never have Ronan. He would never have Ronan. It wasn’t scary because it would never happen. 

 

Adam was scared. Scared. Scared. And ashamed. Not of Ronan. Not even of his desires. Not even of his desires of Ronan. Ashamed of his fright. 

 

He gets home. He can’t study, because he left all his papers at Monmouth. Hopefully Gansey will bring them to school tomorrow and he won’t have to go back there and face Ronan just yet. Because. He can’t. He needs - he needs time. He does his chores. He showers. He goes to bed. He rubs his fingers against the sting of his knuckles. The blood is gone, but the injury remains, like a projection over his skin. Not his, but his, but not his. But his. 

 

He wants to get up, to put his shoes back on, to cycle back to Monmouth, to go into Ronan’s bedroom without even knocking and climb onto his bed and get in under the covers with him and press their knuckles together and feel his pain in his own knuckles and say sorry with touch. But. He can’t. Just the thought of this want makes his stomach hurt so much with fear he could cry with the shame. He is both glad and angry that the skinbinding doesn’t reach deeper, doesn’t bind emotions together. Glad because he does not want Ronan to feel how ashamed he is, and, he doesn’t want to know how angry Ronan is. Angry because he wants Ronan to know how sorry he is, and, he wants to know how angry Ronan is. If it is an Anger that can be abated. He’d wasted all his hope as a child, doesn’t think he can dredge up enough now to even begin to hope.    
  


-

 

He goes to school the next day. He is supposed to have class with Ronan first period, something he is dreading, but, unsurprisingly Ronan is not there. His next class is with Gansey, and Gansey hands Adam his books and papers with a small tight frown. 

 

“So,” Adam says, shuffling his things into tidy piles and putting half of them away in his bag, “did your soulmate come ‘round to the idea of you?” 

 

Gansey’s frown slides off, disappears into a smile, bright and beaming. “Not really,” he says, in a voice far too cheerful for those particular words, “but she’s agreed that we can meet again and talk about it. She says she doesn’t really believe in the construct of ‘soulmates’, and she certainly doesn’t when the construct tries to say her soulmate is a ‘raven boy’ but she’s willing to see what it’s like.” 

 

“Generous of her,” Adam offers. 

 

“She’s a delight,” Gansey says, eyes in the distance, “she’s so - real. Angry though, so, that was interesting. But also - oh,” he says, stopping himself suddenly, “I’m - I’m sorry. I know you don’t like talking about this sort of thing, I’ll -” 

 

“No,” Adam says, haste drawing his word out in his elongated accent, “no, Gansey. It’s ok. “ 

 

Gansey looks at him curiously, and then warily, and then says, “Ronan isn’t here today.” 

 

“I know,” Adam says, knows his accent is giving him away, giving his anxiety away, “we were s’posed to have first period together. He never showed.” 

 

“He wasn’t home last night,” Gansey says, slow, “he didn’t get home until some awful time this morning. He was… upset. I was worried.” 

 

Adam looks at the wood grain of his desk. Despite the fact that people paid through the nose to come here, it was as abused as the desks at Mountain View, even if the wood and build was of a better stock. Names were carved and scrawled into it. Dicks, superman S’s, obscene doodles of breasts. Birds. He doesn’t want to hear Gansey say any of this. Especially when he’s not sure how much Gansey knows. 

 

“Did you two fight?” Gansey asks then, tone cautious, “I thought the two of you were past… really hurting each other.” 

 

“Apparently not,” Adam says, tone brittle. He hadn’t meant to speak at all. 

 

“It must have been something big,” Gansey says quietly. The teacher has arrived now, and even though he’s just getting himself ready in the front of the room, Gansey obviously doesn’t want to draw his attention. “To leave the both of you… hurting.” 

 

Adam hadn’t been aware he was so openly hurting. 

 

“It was my fault,” Adam says, still not meaning to speak at all. “I hurt him. Not the other way around. Don’t blame him.” 

 

“I wasn’t putting blame anywhere,” Gansey tells him, then, “the two of you didn’t seem in fighting spirits back at Nino’s.” 

 

Adam wants to bang his head hard into the desk. Anything to stop Gansey prodding. 

 

“Adam,” Gansey says, and his voice is very low now, “I know he looks tough. I know he acts tough. But he isn’t even half as tough as all that. Please. Don’t break him.” 

 

Adam grunts, traces a deeply carved line in the wood. “Thought you weren’t puttin’ blame anywhere,” he says. 

 

“I’m not,” Gansey says, “I’m just saying.” 

 

Class begins. 

 

-

 

Adam has work at Boyd’s after school, so, even if he had gathered his bravery and thoughts together properly, he still wouldn’t have been able to go to Monmouth. 

He tries to take advantage of the work, straight forward and mechanical, leaving plenty of space in his mind for wandering thoughts, to try and figure out his next move. He’s caught up in these thoughts, trying to work over the hard block of terror blocking his path, is distracted enough that his hands are clumsy. He presses his bare forearm against a hot engine in a moment of lost balance, and as he pulls himself away hissing, he can already see the red mark rising up on his arm. 

 

Dominic, another mechanic, hearing his hiss, looks over his shoulder at it and says; “Yikes, y’poor soulmate, huh?”

 

Dominic doesn’t even know the fucking half of it. 

Adam nods tightly back at him, looks again at his arm. He needs to douse it in cold water so it doesn’t turn into an ugly blister, so Ronan doesn’t have to watch it blister. He goes off to the dingy bathroom, shoves his coveralls down around his waist, and wedges his whole arm in the small sink before he turns the tap on. 

The cold water is a relief. The white noise of rushing water is a relief. He doesn’t know what to do. He does. He ought to go to Ronan now, before it was all too late. Apologise. Apologise. Apologise. Ignore his own fear. He needs to because it will get too late all too quickly. The bathroom door is locked behind him, the water loud in the small room. He cries in the safety that no one will walk in on him, no one will hear him. He cries the entire time the water runs over his arm, and by the time he deems it safe to turn the tap off, he feels drained and empty and exhausted beyond belief. He splashes more water over his face, rubs it over his eyes, dries his arm and face with paper towels, pulls his coveralls back up, and goes back to the car he’d abandoned. 

 

-

 

Ronan is waiting in the parking lot when he gets off his shift. He’s sitting in the gravel by Adam’s bike, even though Adam can see his BMW parked just across the road. Ronan’s picking half heartedly at the red skin on his forearm, doesn’t seem to notice Adam’s come out until Adam pauses a metre away from him, unsure if he should go try and hide in the garage, see if he could wait Ronan out. Ronan speaks. 

 

“Is it because it’s me,” he asks, voice rougher than Adam imagined it would be, “or is it because I’m a guy. Or is it because I’m not dead? Was it just more… romantic having a dead soulmate. Did it fit your sad backstory better?” 

 

Adam feels the stab of hurt at his words as harshly as he had felt the burn on his arm. 

 

“None of the above,” Adam tells him, voice quiet with the effort of not being angry. 

 

“So,” Ronan says, clears his throat loudly, “Why’d you leave, then? ‘Cos those were the only options I came up with.” 

 

“Ronan,” Adam says. He has to pause after saying this, because he hadn’t figured out what he was going to say next, had been hoping that just saying Ronan’s name would spark his emotions into coherency. 

 

Ronan slaps at his arm, and then at the gravel beside him. Adam can feel it in his own arm, in his own palm. Ronan is not looking at him. “Did you do this on purpose?” Ronan asks then. He’s not looking or pointing at the burn, but Adam knows he’s talking about it nevertheless. Did you think it’d be funny? Y’know how fucking terrified I get when I get a mark? Everytime?” 

 

Adam can imagine. Had imagined. He doesn’t want to do this outside Boyd’s. His workmates are leaving now as well, casting curious looks at the two of them. He steps closer to Ronan, sits down next to him, leaning against his bike’s front wheel. 

 

“Don’t be stupid,” Adam says, “no.” 

 

Ronan doesn’t say anything else. Adam is impressed he’d already said as much as he had. Adam wants to lean against him. To just have everything smoothed over and easy and finished. He wants his stomach to shut up. He wants to just be able to give and receive the comfort they both need.

 

“Let’s drive,” Adam says after a few moments of painful silence, “I can’t do this here.” 

 

Ronan still doesn’t look at him. His voice is hard and brittle, possibly not brittle, possibly already broken down into little pieces. He says; “if you’re gonna tell me you don’t want me with your words, you don’t need to.” 

 

“Let’s drive,” Adam says again, and this time Ronan doesn’t say anything, just stands up and stalks away towards his car. 

 

Adam unlocks his bike, wheels it along beside him, across the road, to Ronan’s car. They’d gone on not quite joyrides together before, this is habit now.  _ This _ being Ronan getting into his front seat and popping the boot, and Adam sliding his bike in, slamming the boot shut, and walking around the car to the front, climbing into Ronan’s passenger seat. Ronan has usually put his music on already, has already got the engine thrumming. Sometimes he pretends to drive off without Adam. Won’t let him back in until Adam plays along and runs after the car. He doesn’t do any of this today. Just sits there, hands on his lap, eyes unfocused, gazing, not seeing, out the windscreen. 

 

“Drive,” Adam says. 

 

Ronan turns his car on. He pulls out onto the road. They drive. It’s a familiar drive, Ronan taking the first road that leads out of town, pulling onto the country roads, driving until the windows only show green and blue and occasionally cows. Adam doesn’t know how to start speaking. Doesn’t know how to even look at Ronan. 

 

“That night I thought you were dead,” Adam says eventually, eyes glued to his hands, white knuckled on his knees, “was it because of me?” 

 

Ronan swears. The car swerves. They’re driving down a quiet and straight country road, fields on both sides, so it wasn’t particular dangerous, but Adam’s hand goes to the handgrip above the window anyway. Ronan swears again, and then swerves off the road. Drives the car right into a wide and grassy ditch, and cuts the engine. If the ditch is muddy, they’ll probably be a bit stuck.

 

“What the fucking, shitting, hell?” Ronan says. 

 

“You tried to kill yourself,” Adam says, as steady as he can manage it, “was it because of how fucked up our skinbinding was? You said how awful it was. Always bein’ bruised. Never knowin’. Was it because of that?” 

 

Ronan is silent for a long moment, his harsh breathing the only noise in the car, save for the cooling noise of the engine. 

 

“No,” he says eventually, “it wasn’t.” 

 

Adam doesn’t know how to reply, so he simply says; “I thought I’d killed you.” 

 

Ronan laughs. Or, he makes a sound that could have been a laugh if laughs sounded like they hurt. 

 

“I’m not dead,” he says, like he had yesterday. “You didn’t fucking kill me. You did just fucking  _ break my heart _ though, so there is that. If you want something to be guilty about.” 

 

Adam already has plenty to be guilty about. “Since you were three,” he says, quiet. 

 

Ronan makes that laugh like noise again. It sounds even less laugh like now. “Since I was three?” he says harshly, “Fuck, Parrish, I’m not even gonna pretend that the fucking bruises and shit was rougher on me than it was on you. This has been happening, directly, to you, all your fucking life.” 

 

When Adam doesn’t say anything, Ronan speaks again. 

 

“Are we here,” he says, voice a little stronger than it had been, “because you’re gonna tell me you never wanna see me again, or because you’re trying to work your way up to an apology. Or both?” 

 

Adam swallows. 

 

“I do wanna see you,” he says. “And yeah. I’m workin’ on the apology. I dunno how to make it enough, though.” 

 

Ronan’s voice has lost all the strength it had only just regained. “It just needs to be the words,” he grits out “I just need to hear them.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Adam says, says it slow so they can sit in between them. He looks at Ronan now, is shocked to see Ronan’s face wet with tears, because he hadn’t heard any of them fall. “I’m sorry,” he says again, softer, quieter, “I know I hurt you. I was just… scared.” 

 

“Are you still scared?” Ronan asks, he’s looking Adam right in the eye, uncomfortable, but not something Adam wants to look away from. 

 

“Yeah,” Adam breathes. 

 

“Why?” 

 

“Because,” Adam says, draw in a great big gulp of air, “because I dunno if I’m capable anymore of - of  _ lovin’ _ . Because wantin’ you was safe ‘cos you belonged t’someone else. I thought. Because… because it hurts.” 

 

“It’s always hurt,” Ronan says flatly, “we’re both skilled at hurting, Parrish.” 

 

Adam looks away. Back to his knees. Ronan speaks again. 

 

“If we’re skinbound,” he says, gruff, “it means you are capable of loving. People don’t get skinbound to people if they can’t  _ love _ . Shithead. And I do belong to someone. You. As much as I can to anyone.” 

 

“You still want me?” Adam asks, sardonic, “Even though I just walked away from you?” 

 

“You biked. And yeah. I still fucking want you,” Ronan snarls, “I’ve always fuckin’ wanted you. Just spit it out, Parrish. D’you want me as well or not? I can’t sit here confessing my feelings all day without some fucking return.” 

 

“I want you,” Adam replies. “But I dunno what t’do with the want. I trashed my soulmate plans when I thought you were - were dead.” 

 

“You don’t need a fucking plan,” Ronan says, “fucking fate doesn’t need a plan.” 

 

“If I just kiss you,” Adam says, “can we pretend things are just ok. Can we pretend we never had this huge fuck up where I didn’ know how to deal with my own emotions?” 

 

Ronan appears to be considering this, from the long silence, and then he says; “No. You can kiss me though.” There’s a short silence, and then Ronan adds, “But only if you mean it. Only if it isn’t just an apology. I don’t want fake kissing.” 

 

Adam looks at him again, still so hard to do, to focus his eyes on Ronan’s face which is hard and drawn with his attempt at not letting his hurt on his face. He leans in, over the gap between their seats, lifts his hand to brush up against Ronan’s cheek, and kisses him. He had been intending it to be just a light press of lips. Something chaste. Something… sensible to give after giving so much hurt. Ronan isn’t on the same page, which is fine, because Adam isn’t particularly tied to this page. He pushes past Adam’s lips, mouth open and wanting, and Adam lets him steer the kiss for a few heated moments before biting down on Ronan’s lip. Ronan hisses into his mouth, and Adam can feel the pain of it in his own lip, the swell of blood under his skin in his own mouth. He pulls away again. Ronan looks at him, eyes narrowed, tongue tip visible, resting on his lip where Adam had bitten him. 

 

“Were you testing?” he asks. 

 

“Not quite,” Adam says, a quiet admission, “just - letting myself believe.” 

 

“You didn’t have to do it by biting so hard,” Ronan says, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Adam says again. He’s not apologising for biting. Ronan shrugs. “Gansey knows we fought,” Adam tells him then. “I told him it was my fault. I didn’t say what happened.” 

 

“Well now you can tell him we made up,” Ronan says, “you can tell him that I forgive you.” 

 

“Why would you forgive me?” Adam asks, “You don’t need to forgive me. Or at least, not straight away.”

 

“How am I supposed to move the fuck forward if I don’t?” Ronan says, his voice harsh, his face not, “I want to forgive you. So I’m gonna. Have any more fucking complaints about that, Parrish?” 

 

“I wanna say sorry, again,” Adam says. 

 

“So say it again,” Ronan says, “but I’ve already fucking forgiven you so there’s no point.” 

 

“You could say it to me,” Adam points out, “instead of just saying it about me.” 

 

Ronan stares at him, and then bares his teeth in a not quite smile. “I forgive you,” he says. Voice not harsh anymore, matching his face. “I fucking forgive you, you prick.”

 

Adam reaches for him again. He can’t help it. He feels the want to touch Ronan, to be touched by Ronan as if it’s a need, not just a desire. His skin is itchy with it. Ronan meets him halfway, his hands already lifting to cup the back of Adam’s head, the side of his waist, to pull him tighter into a kiss. When Ronan’s hand slides from Adam’s nape to the side of his neck, to his chin, Adam lifts his own hand to grip onto Ronan’s wrist, to slide his thumb under the leather, and Ronan breaks the kiss to look at him. 

 

“At some point,” Adam says, can feel the jagged scarring under the pad of his thumb, “will you tell me about this?” 

 

“Yeah,” Ronan says, “if that’s what you want.” 

 

“Just -” Adam begins, quiet, because he doesn’t know how to ask this without sounding ridiculously insensitive. “Is it something you still want?” 

 

“Not often,” Ronan replies, which is a lot more truthful than Adam had been expecting, “not anymore.” 

 

“Will you tell me about that, too?” Adam asks, “Sometime.” 

 

“Yeah,” Ronan says, then, “let’s go to Monmouth. Kissing in cars isn’t as comfortable as it ought to be.” 

 

They go back to Monmouth. 

 

-

 

Gansey is in the main room with Henry. They’re studying again, something that Adam had agreed to do with them. Gansey looks up when they come in, eyebrows raised. Henry has just one eyebrow up and he looks amused, and vaguely exasperated, like he had been having to listen to Gansey worry about where Adam and Ronan were for the last hour or so. 

 

“I thought you forgot,” Gansey says, “did your shift run late?” 

 

“I did forget,” Adam says truthfully, “I’m sorry. I was - uh. Making up with Ronan.” 

 

“Oh,” Gansey says. He’s looking between the two of them, “I’m glad. I was worried about that.” Henry is nodding exaggeratedly behind him. “What was it you two fought over?” 

 

He and Ronan had talked about this on the way back. It was clear to Adam that even if Ronan had forgiven him, they still had a fuckload to work out together. Like how much this obviously freaked him out even though now he was confident he’d gotten over the initial fear of the unknown. However, the one thing that they had already worked out, was that this was a useless thing to keep a secret from Gansey. A wise secret to keep from Aglionby, for a while anyway, a necessary secret to keep from Adam’s parents. 

 

“We didn’t fight so much,” Adam mumbles, “I just couldn’t hack so much truth at once. Y’know me and good news, Gans, I don’ take to it very well. I’m too suspicious for it.” 

 

Gansey just looks confused. 

 

Ronan elaborates. 

 

“Y’know how I almost fucking died a while back,” he says, much too bluntly. Gansey flinches hard. “Sorry,” Ronan says, clears his throat, “well,” he says, “I didn’t fucking die.” 

 

Gansey is staring at him, like he doesn’t know what to make of this, of Ronan bringing up something that’s obviously painful to the both of them. And then his expression clears, and his eyes travel slowly to Adam. 

 

“You watched your soulmate die,” he says. Adam nods. “Oh,” Gansey says, “ _ Oh _ .” 

 

“I reacted to the news of it about as well as it sounds like your soulmate did,” Adam says with a half shrug. “But we’ve talked it out now.” 

 

“I’m so glad,” Gansey says, he’s not looking at Adam anymore, his eyes are boring into Ronan. Ronan obliges. 

 

“And of course I fucking forgave him,” Ronan says, “he’s fucking hot, isn’t he?” 

 

Henry snorts. Adam blushes slightly. Ronan continues. 

 

“Anyway,” he says loudly, claps his hands together, and then grabs for Adam’s hand, “we didn’t come back here to confess shit, actually, we came back to make out on my bed. See ya later, losers.” 

 

Adam doesn’t bother to blush more, because Ronan is already tugging him past Gansey and Henry on the floor towards his bedroom. 

 

“Adam,” Gansey calls out behind him, “your study?” 

 

Adam half turns to give Gansey a lopsided shrug. “Later,” he says. He owes it to Ronan, at least, to not ignore him so soon after Ronan’s forgiven him for ignoring him. Henry is laughing again, also making some obscene  noises. 

 

-

 

“So,” Ronan says, once they’re shut in his room, “we’re stuck together now that Gansey knows, you know that, yeah?” 

 

“Yeah,” Adam says, “I reckon I don’t mind that.” 

 

“You reckon?” Ronan replies. He’s crossed the room to sprawl across his bed, while Adam is still standing by the door. “You didn’t sound so sure about all this back in the car.” 

 

“It wasn’t that I was unsure,” Adam says, he takes a step further into the room, “just frightened.” 

 

Ronan looks at him through half shut eyes. He’s tipped his head back, his chin is pointing at Adam. “You still frightened?” 

 

“Probably always,” Adam admits, “doesn’t mean I don’t want this.” He takes another step. 

 

“Can you stop pussyfooting around?” Ronan demands, “And get the hell over here, already? I’ve got a cure for your scaredycat-ness.” 

 

Adam rolls his eyes, takes long steps over to Ronan, perches on the edge of the bed. “Alright,” he says, “what’s the cure?” 

 

“This,” Ronan growls. He’s sitting up straighter, legs stretched out along the bed, knees bent. He reaches for Adam, snags him around the waist and pulls him further onto the bed, against his body. “This,” he repeats, bringing his face closer to Adam’s, pressing their lips together. Adam gets the gist of it. He pushes back against Ronan, shifts on the bed until he’s sprawled out on top of it, along Ronan, pushes into the kiss until it’s a little filthy and a little rough, faint echoes on pain echoing between their mouths. 

 

-

 

It’s a lot later that evening when Ronan brings it up. Adam had stayed for dinner, something he didn’t often do, had stayed a while longer to actually get some study in, because, well, exams were right around the corner. Stayed a while longer after he’d finished studying because Ronan had sat next to him the whole time and kind of studied as well, but also kind of dragged his fingers up and down Adam’s arm for almost an hour in the most maddeningly distracting kind of way. 

 

“I don’t want you to go home,” Ronan says, the two of them lying on their backs on the hard floor of Monmouth, papers spread out around them. 

Gansey and Henry were in the kitchen/bathroom, attempting to make popcorn. It apparently wasn’t going well according to the vague burning smell and the exclamations. Adam has no idea how you fuck up popcorn. 

 

“Well,” Adam says. Their hands are linked, palm to palm, wrist to wrist. He can feel Ronan’s pulse against his skin, hard and fast. “Well,” he says again, “I can’t just stay here and kiss you forever, Lynch. Jus’ ‘cos I’m your soulmate don’t mean I’m just gonna move in with y’all.” 

 

“It could mean that,” Ronan insists, “we’re skinbound. It’d work out, wouldn’t it?” 

 

Adam tips his head on the floor to look at Ronan. Ronan is already looking at him. His face is all hard angles, his mouth a sharp line. Adam used to think the line was almost cruel, but now he’s beginning to think it’s just scared as well. 

 

“That’s not how it works, Ronan,” he says, “I’m still gonna find you intensely irritatin’ sometimes y’know.” 

 

“Oh I’m counting on it,” Ronan says, but he shakes his head slowly against the wood floor, his eyes never leaving Adam’s face, “but I don’t want you to go home because knowing it’s your face getting bruised when I see the bruises on my skin makes me feel sick.” 

 

“Oh,” Adam says. Because, what the hell else is he supposed to say. 

 

“I hate it,” Ronan says vehemently. He’s still staring at Adam. “I hated it when I didn’t know it was you, and I hate it more now. It was fucking shit the whole month I knew it was you, every time I saw any mark on my skin I wanted to fucking get in my car and drive to yours and fucking - fucking smash your dad’s face in.” 

 

“Oh,” Adam says. Because what the hell else is he supposed to say. 

 

“Didn’t think you’d appreciate that though,” Ronan says, “so I didn’t. But. Doesn’t stop me from wanting to. Everytime.” 

 

“I can’t just not go home,” Adam tells him. “It’s not that simple.” 

 

“It could be,” Ronan protests, “it could be exactly that simple. You just don’t go home. You just stay here. All your school shit is here.” 

 

“I’m more than my school shit,” Adam says, rolling his eyes. 

 

“Are you though?” Ronan retorts back quickly. He’s squeezing Adam’s hand hard enough that Adam can feel his bones grinding together a bit. It hurts but not badly enough that he wants Ronan to stop, because it also feels… good. Grounding. Ronan isn’t waiting for a reply, because he continues. “You’re gonna go back, anyway, aren’t you?” 

 

Adam swallows. “Yeah,” he says, “I have to. Sorry.” 

 

Ronan doesn’t try to argue with him about this. It’s never been the kind of argument they have. He moves forward. “When I got my tattoo,” he says, “did you feel that?” 

 

Adam snorts, because what kinda dumb question? “Yes,” he says, “it fucking hurt, man. It was good though. I - I didn’t know I had a - didn’t know you existed until that.” 

 

“Huh,” Ronan says, “how come - oh.” 

 

“Yeah,” Adam shrugs, “hard to tell my own shit apart from yours. Can I see the tat? I never gotta see it all at once.” 

 

Ronan grins at him, wild, a little unsettling. In a good way. “You trying to get me undressed?” he asks. 

 

“Yes,” Adam replies, “can I?” 

 

“Sure,” Ronan says, does a half sit up and pulls his shirt off. Gansey walks back into the room. Henry starts laughing  _ again _ . 

 

-

 

Ronan drives him home that night. Late, but not late enough that it ought to be a problem. He pulls up by the letterboxes, because Adam doesn’t want to push it. 

 

“Hey,” Ronan says, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the engine. “You know I’m always gonna know when you’re being hurt.”  

 

“You don’t need to explain skinbinding to me,” Adam says, “I studied it at my craphole school too, thanks.” 

 

Ronan ignores him. “You can’t pretend it’s not happening. I’m always gonna - I wanna be there for you when it happens. I don’t want it to be happening, but if I can’t stop it, I wanna be there.” 

 

“You think that’s something some skinbound couples do?” Adam asks, wants more levity in this conversation, “Like, have codes? Three pinches to the left hands means buy takeout on the way home? A sharp pinch on the ear means I miss you?” 

Ronan reaches over, pinches Adam’s ear sharply. Adam frowns at him. 

“I’m still right here,” he says, “and you’re meant to pinch your own ear.” 

 

“We could make a code,” Ronan says, “could be, I see or feel any bruise from you on me and I come pick you up and take you away from here.” 

 

“Ronan,” Adam says.

 

“Please,” Ronan says, which isn’t what Adam had been expecting him to say. He considers. 

 

“If I get bruised,” he says at last, “and then you feel me pinching my own ear, that means come get me, yeah? And I’ll meet you right here.” 

 

Ronan nods tightly. It’s obviously not as much as he wants. He leans in then, kisses Adam hard. Adam kisses back, as hard as he’s getting

 

-

 

His father grunts his annoyance about the time at him when he gets in, but that’s it. So. Adam does his chores quickly, and then showers, quickly, and then goes to bed. He’s still scared. And he thinks it’s good that he knows this. It’s a slightly different fear to what had been haunting him the previous night. He’s not so scared and sick with how Ronan is feeling, now, because, Ronan has (unbelievably) forgiven him. He’s not so worried about his own capacity for...loving, because Ronan had made the valid point that he never actually stopped begin skinbound so why would his loving capacity have changed. He’s still worried about the whole gay thing. A little. Not much. It’s just that vague niggle. What he’s most worried about, most scared about, is the idea of Ronan seeing the bruises he was absolutely still gonna get. Was the knowledge that even Adam’s pain wasn’t independent. It was shared. It belonged to someone else. 

 

-

 

Things don’t change as drastically as Adam expects them to.  He goes to school, he lets Ronan persuade him to make out with him in supply closets. He goes to work. More often than not Ronan picks him up after work. Sometimes they go driving, sometimes they go to Monmouth. Sometimes at Monmouth he’ll study with Gansey, sometimes with Noah and Henry too. Sometimes he and Ronan will just go straight to his room and study something else. Gansey manages to prove to his soulmate that he’s not as much of a pretentious asshole as she thinks he is. She joins their hangouts. Ronan teases her for being called Blue. Blue teases him for being an absolute ass job. Noah teases them both for various things. 

Adam had always had this thought, that once you find your soulmate, once you meet the person you’re skinbound to, that everything in your life changes. You become a better person. You suddenly understand the meaning of true love. You have less worries. If anything, Adam thinks he’s becomes a little bit of a worse person - if only because he’s so easily beguiled into ditching group hang out time for private kissing time. He certainly doesn’t understand true love, especially seeing as he’s not sure what the baseline for love is supposed to be anyway, what makes it true in the first place? And holy fuck, he has so many worries. Like, what happens when he moves out of Henrietta? How does the work with him and Ronan? Has he finished that assignment due on Monday? Does Gansey feel like he’s being abandoned? Is he making enough money? Do his parents suspect anything? Was it too risky making out in the parking lot at Boyd’s? Do his parents suspect anything? How many more times can he watch Ronan keeping his mouth shut on how upset he is everytime he and Adam share a bruise that comes from Robert Parrish. How much longer can Adam live with that guilt?

-

He hasn’t called Ronan to him after an  _ incident _ as often as he knows Ronan wishes he would. The first time he had had been because right after Robert’s fist had burst a shard of pain through Adam’s shoulder, he’d felt another stab of pain in his shin, and when he’d escaped to his room he’d seen a second blooming bruise there. He’d needed to make sure Ronan was ok as well. Turns out the punch Adam had received had knocked Ronan off balance while climbing the stairs. Turns out this wasn’t a new thing. Turns out that when Adam wasn’t looking for pain that didn’t belong to him, he had just tuned out whatever random pain happened around whatever pain he was receiving. He’d sat with Ronan in his BMW and tried to kiss his apologies to him. 

 

The second time he’d called Ronan to pick him up had been after just a generally shitty day. His hours were cut a little at the factory, not his own fault, just a small economic crisis, no biggie, and then he hadn’t been able to fix an engine at Boyd’s, and then when he’d gotten home his father was drunk and angry because he had also had his hours cut at the factory, and, just, God. There’s only so much Adam can deal with in one day before he needs to just lie face down in bed and pretend he doesn’t exist, and he’d discovered in the last couple of months that the alternative to that was to press himself in against Ronan’s chest and try to match their breathing. 

 

The fourth time was because he’d run out of plasters at the trailer and the cut under his lip wouldn’t fucking stop bleeding. A fact Ronan already knew and was not pleased about. It had probably been unwise, the two of them going into the corner store with matching bleeding faces to buy plasters. To make up for that unwiseness they had made out in the safety and privacy of Monmouth, with matching plasters, though technically Ronan didn’t need one. 

 

He doesn’t want there to be a fifth time, or a sixth time, but there is. 

 

It isn’t until the seventh time that things actually change, though, and despite his childish beliefs, the change wasn’t due to being skinbound. 

 

-

 

The seventh time starts out with Adam getting home late. He’s late enough that he is expecting to be hit when he gets home. He thinks that Ronan knows this as well, because he’s especially reluctant to let Adam out of the car. 

 

His father is waiting for him. 

 

His father is waiting for him with receipts. 

 

Of all the things Adam had been worrying about, he had forgotten to add to the list that he was making more money than his parents knew about. The fact that almost every cent of it went to schooling didn’t matter. He had forgotten to worry about it. He had even forgotten his mother goes through his room when she feels like it. 

 

The first hit is hard enough that Adam is momentarily worried, (read; terrified) that it might cause Ronan to crash his car. When no replying full body smash occurs, he stops being so worried. Partially because Robert is hitting him again. And then again. And then again. And it’s worse than usual. It’s more… angry than usual. It feels like it could be really truly bad. He’s hit again, and he’s falling off the trailer porch, and he’s hitting his head on the railing. At first he’s only touching his ear because everything about it feels wrong, and wrong, and wrong, and then he’s pinching it hard because he doesn’t fucking care that it isn’t over. He wants out. He wants Ronan. He can’t. 

 

Ronan is there a lot quicker than he ought to be for someone who was only just called a few seconds ago. Adam is too dizzy, too fucked up to be able to parse this just yet. It’s taking every part of him to try to stand up. He can’t make it. He’s aware that Ronan is hitting his father. Is aware his father is hitting Ronan back. He can’t feel it. The blows landing on Ronan and slipping onto Adam are duller than they are in person, but they still hurt. 

  
  


“Ronan,” he calls, can’t hear himself properly, “Ronan, stop.” 

  
  


Ronan stops very suddenly. 

 

Adam isn’t sure exactly how or why, but there are police suddenly. There’s one at his side, helping him to his feet. Asking if he’s drunk. He’s unstable and slanting to one side as if he is. His heady feels heavy and dark. He can see another officer shackling Ronan, which is wrong, wrong, wrong. 

  
  


“I’m not drunk,” he says, “I’m - my ear -” he doesn’t know what to say about his ear. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with it. The officer with Ronan is leading him over to the police car now. He can see his mother standing in the doorway of the trailer, another officer next to her. He doesn’t know where his father is. He doesn’t. “Ronan,” he says, coughs, “Ronan was defending me.” 

  
  


“Excuse me?” 

  
  


His whole head hurts. He thinks it’s his own pain but he’s not sure. “He’s my soulmate,” Adam mumbles, “we’re skinbound. He felt - he felt my father hitting me after he dropped me off home. He must have felt it get bad. He came to defend me.” 

  
  


The officer is bending down, looking at Adam’s eyes now, and Adam tries to stare back, to show that he’s functioning, that he understands what he’s saying. 

  
  


“Your skinmate?” the officer asks. It’s not uncommon exactly in Henrietta for people to have found their soulmates, but, he supposes it’s probably a little uncommon for them to be two guys. 

  
  


“Yeah,” Adam rasps, “he - he didn’t start this. He didn’t do anythin’ wrong. It was my father - he - can I - can I press charges?” 

 

-

 

Adam has to go to the hospital. Ronan has to go the police department. Not to be jailed or fined, just to answer some questions. When he’s finished there, he joins Adam at the hospital. Ronan is mostly unscathed. He has a few bruises of his own, but he’s alright. He can feel the bruising on Adam though, can feel the heaviness in his head. 

 

Adam does not have insurance. Adam also does not have enough money to pay his bill. Adam also, will never hear from his left ear again. Adam has to close his eyes as Ronan pays his bill. He doesn’t want to know. 

  
  


-

  
  


“Is this what you wanted?” Adam asks, hours later when the two of them are back at Monmouth. When everything had been explained in short halting sentences to Blue and Gansey. When Ronan had driven Adam back to the trailer to get his shit. When Adam was pressed shoulder to shoulder with Ronan in Ronan’s large bed. 

 

“What?” Ronan asks. His eyes had been shut, but Adam can see light glinting off his whites now. “Was what what I wanted?” 

 

“This,” Adam sighs, closes his eyes. “I can never go back there. You don’t have t’worry about midnight bruises and ear pinchin’ anymore.” 

 

Ronan makes a noise which Adam recognises as anger. He keeps his eyes closed. Ronan hasn’t pulled away from him. 

 

“This isn’t what I wanted,” Ronan says, loud, clear, “how could you say that?” 

 

Adam shrugs. It had been easy to say. He’s not sure if he’s more angry or upset. 

 

“This isn’t what I wanted,” Ronan repeats, he’s shifting up onto his side, leaning in over Adam’s chest, fingers splaying out on Adam’s shoulder, “I wanted you out, you  _ shit _ , but I never wanted you hurt. I never wanted you to have to leave like this.” 

 

Adam knows now that he’s more upset than he’s angry. He has to keep his eyes shut or else he’ll start crying. 

 

“I just wanted -” he says, brittle, “- I just wanted to get t’leave with some, just  _ some _ , some semblance of pride.” 

 

“Dunno if it helps,” Ronan says, “but I’m proud of you anyway.” 

 

“Why?” Adam snaps. He opens his eyes, can’t help himself. Feels the tears flood his cheeks. Ronan reaches out, rubs at them with the heel of his hand. 

 

“Just am,” Ronan grunts, “for - you pressed charges. You didn’t have to do that. You could have gone back there if you hadn’t.” 

 

“Sure,” Adam says, closes his eyes again, lets Ronan keep brushing at his face, “and let the police just take you? Get my fucking soulmate charged?” 

 

“Hey,” Ronan says, very quiet. His hands are still on Adam’s cheeks. “I love you.” 

 

Adam doesn’t open his eyes again. He wants to just let these words wash over him for a short while without him having to actually look at them head on. 

 

“I love you,” Ronan says again, “I love you and I’m fucking proud of you.”

 

Adam sniffles, just a little bit. He turns his face against Ronan’s hand it’s not just resting on his cheeks, but cupping them. 

 

“I’m sorry for hurtin’ you so much,” he says. Ronan kisses his forehead. “I dunno if I can say it yet. But I do too.” 

 

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” Ronan tells him, not meanly. He kisses his forehead again. “That’s fine. You don’t need to say it.” 

  
  


-

  
  


(4 years later)

  
  


“Hey,” Adam answers his phone, “what’re you calling me for? Forgot the code again? I want takeout.” 

 

“Dumbass,” Ronan replies, Adam can hear his sneer over the phone, “I’m getting the fucking takeout, Thai, I know, you pinched your fucking elbow too. Y’know how weird that is to feel? I’m gonna do it to you someday soon. Outta the blue. It like… tickles.” 

 

“Ok,” Adam says, “so, again, what’re you calling me for?” 

 

“Can a man not call his own fucking fiance?” Ronan drawls, “God, Parrish, get some manners.” 

 

“A man could fucking explain what he wants,” Adam replies, “and I’ll get more manners the day you pick some up.” 

 

Ronan snorts, then says, “do you want the chicken or the pork?” 

 

“Pork. Obviously.” 

 

“Sometimes you want the chicken!” Ronan defends loudly, “Do you want icecream too? We’re out at the house, yeah?” 

 

“Mm,” Adam says, “yeah. Orange choc chip.” 

 

“God,” Ronan says, “I’ll never get over how gross your tastes are.” 

 

“I’ll never get over how gross you are,” Adam retorts. 

 

“If I’m so gross you should stop sucking my cock like it’s the only substance left on the planet.” 

 

“Fuck!” Adam says, half laugh, half disgust, “if you’re tryin’ to persuade me you’re not gross, you’re failin’. I hope you didn’t say that in public, Lynch.” 

 

“I’m in the car,” Ronan replies, “hey.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Fucking love you. Even if you like gross icecream.” 

 

“So buy your gross mint choc chip icecream too,” Adam says, “love you too. Pinch me when you’re on your way home.” 

 

“I’ll pinch you when I get home,” Ronan offers. 

 

“Fuck off.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! If you like my writing feel free to come yell at me on my Tumblr etoilearden.tumblr.com


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